


Clean Slate

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Ducks, First Kiss, M/M, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, POV Alternating, Temporary Amnesia, The Bentley Ships It, st james' park, twice over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: “No one's invulnerable.” It was a truth Beelzebub had long known; as a demon, there is always a way to break someone. Sometimes you just have to get creative. “If we can't kill them, we take away what they live for.”“What's that?”Beelzebub rolled her eyes. Wasn't it obvious, given their stance at the end of the world? “Each other.”





	Clean Slate

Michael stiffened as Beelzebub entered the room. “Your Holy Fire didn't work,” the angel stated bluntly, unable to keep her eyes from tracking the flies that buzzed around the demon.

“Neither did your Holy Water, if I remember correctly.”

Michael shifted. “They're strong.”

“No one's invulnerable.” It was a truth Beelzebub had long known; as a demon, there is always a way to break someone. Sometimes you just have to get creative. “If we can't kill them, we take away what they live for.”

“What's that?”

Beelzebub rolled her eyes. Wasn't it obvious, given their stance at the end of the world? “Each other.”

–

In the end, it wasn't difficult to source a witch to brew a potion that would cause memory loss. It wasn't difficult to spike Aziraphale's tea, or Crowley's wine. It wasn't difficult at all.

–

_Aziraphale,_ read the tag in the jacket.  _Mr Fell_ , proclaimed the sign on the bookshop stationary. Aziraphale Fell. Bit of a mouthful.

The newly named Angel looked around in bewilderment. One moment, nothing but celestial harmonies and fluffy clouds. The next, Earth. Specifically, a dusty bookshop that appeared to be his cover. 

For some reason, it felt loved.

–

_Anthony J. Crowley_ , said the driving license in his wallet. He couldn't quite remember how to actually drive, despite this evidence, but after he'd seen that beautiful Bentley outside the flat – well, he was a demon. He was supposed to steal. Perfect first action to start corrupting this world of Hers. And he seemed to have lucked upon a car that was happy enough to drive itself. It even chose it's own music, and really – these were  _tunes_ . 

–

Aziraphale hummed as he familiarised himself with his stock. He was taking meticulous notes in order to be able to report back, and adding products into the till with the assistance of a very helpful manual that had been stashed under the counter. Sales were going to be so efficient. Until – an engine outside. A tinkling bell. His first customer!

“Welcome si-”

The words caught in his throat. The man lounging in the doorway was  _beautiful._

Of course, all God's creations are beautiful, he blustered inwardly. But there was something about _this_ one. The red hair. The sunglasses. The... tight jeans....

He coughed.

“Can I – can I help you with anything?” he wavered.

–

He wasn't sure why the Bentley had brought him here, but it had seemed quite insistent. Pulled up, engine off, handbrake on. May as well investigate; perhaps there was a temptation to perform. He pushed open the door of the dingy bookshop and cursed his sunglasses. He'd been watching the streets on the drive, however, and while anything went in terms of clothes, of hair, of all manner of bodily adornment, eye colour fashion seemed stuck in the distressingly natural. And yellow was not natural, for humans.

He peered around, slouching in the doorway. Why a bookshop? He was fairly sure books weren't his thing. Could shelving be what did it for him? He ran a fingertip along the closest. No. Probably not.

“Can I – can I help you with anything?”

He looked over the top of his sunglasses. Oh.

It seemed bookshop owners were his thing.

Intellectually, he had to admit, the man in front of him was not what he would have expected, had he before today had a reason to consider what would set his pulse racing, blood heating (beyond, of course, Hell. But in a bad way). The man was... cute. He was shorter, and a little rounded, and had hair that picked up the sunlight drifting from a window high above and glowed. The man was not sex and blood and sin; not what should catch a demon's eye.

He was perfect.

“I'm – I'm Aziraphale, proprietor of this establishment.” The man smiled, nervously, fingers gripping the back of a chair. “I'm sure I can help you find what you're looking for.”

Indeed.

“Crowley,” he said. Oh _heaven_ , he probably should have said Anthony, that was how humans did it these days, at least he thought it was. Never mind. He didn't know anyone else. He could be Crowley now.

The silence stretched, as he didn't actually want a book and therefore had nothing to ask. The man's eyes flickered around the shop, but if he wasn't mistaken, they flickered to Crowley more often that strictly necessary.

“Lunch?” he heard himself ask.

“Oh?” The man touched one hand to his lips, then ducked behind the counter. He emerged a second later with a handful of cash. “I suppose I can close up for a little while.”

They took the Bentley, both because Crowley wasn't planning on ever returning it, and because, as suspected, it knew somewhere to take them. It pulled up outside a nice looking restaurant called the Ritz.

–

Food was a _delight_. Crowley didn't seem that interested in it, but that just meant more for Aziraphale to try. And he intended to try it all. Mousses, foams, sauces – humans were so _creative_!

–

Crowley watched Aziraphale as he ate. He'd tried a few bites, but while it tasted pleasant, he didn't need to eat and there was something about the motion of chewing that felt... he would say obscene, but as a demon he should have been into that. Wrong. Things that slipped down – whole or liquid – were much more natural. He took a sip of his wine. Now _wine_ was a revelation.

Aziraphale though. He clearly enjoyed every mouthful. Crowley leaned his chin on one hand, watching the man skip from plate to plate, unable to choose favourites. He leaned closer as Aziraphale mopped up the sauce from the chicken with a piece of bread. The look on the man's face sent something molten in his stomach.

–

After lunch, the Bentley quite refused to pay any attention to Crowley turning the ignition. After enough tries for Aziraphale to start feeling embarrassment (that was a new one he was already tiring of. Not overly pleasant) on Crowley's behalf, he suggested they head by foot into a nearby park.

Conversation had been... stilted, over lunch, until it tapered off. Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to a human; he had so little experience. He'd made a few comments about the food, which made Crowley smirk over a wine glass in a way that felt dark, and dangerous, and yet somehow not at all anything to worry about. He'd felt himself blush when Crowley had waved away his handful of paper tens and instead handed the waiter a sleek black rectangle of plastic.

It was comfortable, though. Their shoulders brushed as they walked, and it spread pure contentment throughout his corporation, like a fellow angel was massaging his wings. If this was the way it always was with humans, Aziraphale was quite sure he'd enjoy this particular assignment very much indeed.

Crowley stopped at a duck pond. He produced some bread from a pocket (it was the same kind Aziraphale had found so delightful at lunch) and broke it in half, handing him the larger piece.

They fed the ducks.

“Like water off,” muttered Crowley, just loud enough to catch.

–

The Bentley deigned to start this time, and returned them through London streets Crowley had yet to memorise, to the bookshop.

“Well,” started Crowley, with absolutely no plan of how to continue the sentence.

“This was lovely,” said Aziraphale, hands folded in his lap. “Really the most wonderful afternoon, thank you Crowley.”

Crowley turned and stared at Aziraphale. He couldn't remember the last time someone had thanked him. Not a lot of things you want to spread thanks for, in Hell. He thought the words should itch, annoy at him, especially from a human he should be turning evil. But there was something so good about Aziraphale, and instead, they felt like aloe on sunburn. A first lick of comfort on wounds millennia-old.

He leaned forwards. Aziraphale looked up. Those eyes were so blue. “Can I?”

He wasn't sure the man knew what he was asking, really; he certainly had an air of innocence about him. But he nodded anyway, and edged forwards in return.

Crowley kissed him.

And mentally tripped over his own feet, slid down a mudslide and landed in a puddle. Aziraphale was an _Angel!_

How had he missed that?!

–

Crowley was so close, and every part of Aziraphale strained for him to be closer still. Their lips met and -

He stiffened. _Demon_.

–

But really, reasoned Crowley, steadfastly not pulling away while his mind ran a one minute mile, shaking off muddy water as it went, this was probably a coup. As long as he wasn't about to be smote where he sat. Tempting an _Angel_. Real feather in the old cap, that.

Beside, he didn't _want_ to pull away.

–

There really was no excuse, Aziraphale knew, but Crowley kept kissing him, and it felt _nice._ Soft. Warm. Nothing demonic about this.

Besides, it would be rude to interrupt.

–

There was an ache in his chest, Crowley realised. It wanted him to keep going forever, keep kissing Aziraphale until the end times. He gentled the kiss further, until he was just pressing butterfly kisses against those soft, plump lips.

“Angel,” he sighed.

–

It sounded like an endearment, Aziraphale realised. He ran one hand over Crowley's head, petting as the demon began to pull away. He redirected, and Crowley nudged his forehead into Aziraphale's shoulder. He seemed to be breathing him in. Aziraphale wrapped his other arm around Crowley's back, squeezing tightly as he softly stroked his hair.

–

Michael and Beelzebub sat in a café across the street.

“Damn,” Michael muttered, with real feeling. Sometimes, the only thing to do was swear.

“We -” Beelzebub shook her head, mouth hanging open.

“We achieved what six millennia and Armageddon couldn't,” choked Michael.

“I'll go back to the witch.”

–

It was difficult for the witch to brew a potion which would not only erase the events of the last twenty-four hours, but also restore memories she had wiped with her previous potion. Undoing magic was always a pain in the proverbial. She hated customers who couldn't make up their minds.

It was not difficult to spike Aziraphale's tea, or Crowley's wine. It is hard to learn from mistakes you can't remember.

–

Aziraphale stared at his till. It had caught his eye because it was currently visible, rather than hidden under a carefully crafted layer of detritus; a further defence against customers who tried to make a purchase. Someone had added products into it. There were codes. There were price stickers on some of the paperbacks.

There was a _manual._ And it was _free_ of _dust._

The bell tinkled.

–

“Aziraphale! Get your head out of whatever you're reading, I am in the mood for-” Crowley fell silent.

The angel was staring at a ratty A4 paperback that bore more than a passing resemblance to a Yellow Pages, but with smaller writing. It had a picture of a talking till on the front.

“Something is very wrong, Crowley.”

Aziraphale's hair glowed in the sunlight drifting from a window high above. Crowley stared. Then he ripped off his sunglasses, strode over to the counter and grabbed Aziraphale by the ears.

–

Crowley looked quite dazed, Aziraphale thought, running his fingers of his lips. They felt bruised. He'd kissed people before, certainly, but not like -

He felt himself blushing.

For Crowley just to stride in here, grab him and -

The blush deepened.

Crowley coughed, eyes shifting side to side. They really were the most beautiful colour. “Yes, well, long time coming and all that.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale smiled. Crowley's eyes flicked down to his mouth and back up again.

“Lunch?”

“Sushi?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but they did seem to keep drifting back down, Aziraphale thought, licking his lips at the thought of tuna maki. Mind of their own, almost. “Sure,” Crowley muttered. “Been a while since I had sake.”

“And then perhaps back here...? I wouldn't mind exploring this kissing lark a little further, dear.”

Crowley gaped.

–

Later that evening, Crowley curled around Aziraphale on the old patterned couch. This was better, he thought, than their usual arrangement facing each other. Here, he could steal sips from Aziraphale's glass when his own ran dry. He could steal Aziraphale's heat – the angel seemed to have no objection to a lap full of demon.

He could steal kisses, although most of the time they were given away gladly.

He nudged his face into Aziraphale's neck and breathed deeply. This was all brand new (and who would have thought two millennia old beings had many 'brand new's left?) and yet it felt remarkably familiar.

He wasn't sure why today was the day, after all those years of waiting. He certainly hadn't planned it. He'd wanted to leave it to Aziraphale to set his own pace. But one glance at the angel there, surrounded by light, dust motes dancing in the sunshine that lit his hair like a halo... he just knew.

–

Beelzebub stomped into the room, flies buzzing angrier than ever. “Hell doesn’t run itself, you know,” she spat.

“I do have some rather important business of my own to be getting on with,” Michael retorted. She looked sideways. “Perhaps we should...”

“...Attend to more urgent priorities?”

They met each other's gaze. And with no more than a nod, it was done. Aziraphale and Crowley would be left alone.

For now.


End file.
